User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 17
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Seventeen 20 May 1961 Minerva felt Alastor’s eyes on her as she gathered her things and began putting on her clothes. He had the damnedest way of peering at people—her most of all, it seemed—and she could tell he was doing it even if her back was to him. She had just fastened her skirt when he asked, “Why are you always in such a hurry to leave my bed?” She turned to him with a look of surprise. “I’m not. It’s just that I have to get back to the school.” He said, “No, you don’t. You aren’t due back until lunch tomorrow—you’re allowed the entire day and night off.” “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay out all night; people might begin to talk.” “Let them.” “Alastor—” she said, warning in her voice. “If anyone asked—and I can’t think who’d have the bollocks—you could always say you were visiting your parents,” he said. “Or you could just tell them to bugger off; it’s no one’s business, after all.” “I don’t want the students leaping to any mistaken conclusions,” she said. “Not so mistaken …” he said with a grin, grasping her wrist and pulling her down to the bed, kissing her still-bare shoulder. “Please, Alastor,” she said, disengaging herself from him and standing once again. “My private life is private, and I just don’t like the idea of anyone speculating about it.” He got up and pulled on his undershorts and vest as she located and donned her blouse, her fingers making quick, efficient work of the tiny buttons. Once she had run a brush through her hair and charmed it back into its neat bun, she took a brief look in the mirror. “Very respectable, Professor,” he said, coming up behind her and kissing her exposed neck, and she gave him a small smile. He followed her into the sitting room, and she let him put his arms around her and kiss her. When he had released her lips, he asked, “What about the summer?” “What about it?” “Come on holiday with me.” “Alastor, I’ll have Malcolm with me.” “Send him to your parents for a week.” “I can’t,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Then bring him.” “Alastor!” “What, Minerva?” he asked, a bit of exasperation finally starting to tell in his voice. She looked at him in disbelief. “I’ll not have my son thinking I’m …” “What? Sleeping with me?” “Yes.” He took her hands and drew her to the sofa. “Minerva, Malcolm is sixteen years old. Old enough to be left for a week with his grandparents and old enough to understand that his mother isn’t a Vestal Virgin.” “Please, Alastor—” “Or is it me that’s the problem?” he asked. “Do you just not want him to know you’re seeing me?” There was no anger or resentment in his voice, only curiosity. “Of course not.” “Then why have I not met him?” She sighed. “I don’t know, Alastor … the time just never seemed quite right. It isn’t because I’m hiding you … or maybe I am … but it isn’t you. This is just unfamiliar terrain for me.” He lifted each of her hands and kissed the insides of her wrists. “I know it is. I sometimes forget that. I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry. I never thought of how it might make you feel. And I would like you to meet Malcolm. Truly. I’m just nervous about it. I’m not sure how he’ll feel about it.” “I imagine it will be awkward at first; I’ll not lie about that. But I also imagine he wants his mum to be happy, don’t you think?” “Yes, I think he does. And you do make me happy, Alastor,” she said quietly. “Do I?” he asked, his voice taking on the slightly gruff tone that she had come to realise was his way of masking his deeper emotions. “Yes. You do,” she said. “I’m glad,” he said, kissing her again quickly. “Would you like to come to tea? I could introduce you then,” she said. “I would. But only if you’re sure, Minerva.” Minerva was not sure. Not sure at all, but she said, “I am. I’ll ask Malcolm to come to my quarters for tea on Sunday next, then, if you’re free?” “I’ll make certain I am.” As he saw her to the door of his flat, he added, “And think about summer. If all goes well with my meeting Malcolm—and he doesn’t hex my bollocks off—I’d really like to spend a few days with you somewhere warm. Somewhere you won’t need so many bloody clothes …” She laughed in spite of herself. “Honestly, Alastor … you’re as bad as some of the students.” “You might need to give me detention, then, Madam Professor,” he said. “All right, off you go, now …” He gave her a light swat on the rear as she passed through the doorway, and she paused to glare at him, prompting him to grin back at her as she had known he would. ~oOo~ Alastor was surprised to receive Minerva’s owl the following Tuesday inviting him to tea at Hogwarts that Sunday afternoon. He had expected her to back out of it or to find an excuse to postpone it, but he had decided not to push her any further on it. Minerva liked directness, but she did not like to be cornered. He had realised it very shortly after they had begun seeing one another. She was an odd duck, Minerva McGonagall, he thought to himself, which was probably part of what attracted him to her. Strong and confident one moment, strangely skittish the next. It had taken him a little time to work out that the skittishness appeared when something—or someone—threatened to breach her emotional defences. He liked being the someone, but he tried to take care not to intrude too far. She’d have to make up her own mind to invite him in, and in her own good time. The first time he had kissed her, two weeks after their first date, she had stayed strangely stiff and unresponsive, and he had thought perhaps she simply didn’t find him attractive. But then, the following weekend, she had kissed him back with enough enthusiasm to dispel that notion quite handily. And she had been the one to suggest, three weeks later and with no coyness, that they repair to his bedroom after the glass of Irish whisky and several heated kisses they had shared when she had accompanied him back to his flat after their dinner. When she had suddenly seemed to waver once they had undressed, he had thought she was simply shy, and he had been surprised again when she laughed (kindly, but still …) at his attempt to put her at ease by telling her she was beautiful. As they had lain down on his bed, she had stopped his wandering hands long enough to say, “You should know, I’m not very good at this …” He had tried to soothe her, saying, “It’s all right, Minerva. Your just being here is better than anything that’s happened to me in a long time.” She kissed him, then continued, insisting, “I just don’t want you to be surprised … or disappointed. Despite my age, I’m not very experienced.” He wasn’t quite sure what she was trying to tell him, so he asked, “I won’t be disappointed, but I’m wondering what makes you tell me this. Did you and your husband not share a bed often?” “No, we did. But there wasn’t much in the way of variety. He liked things … a certain way.” “I see,” Alastor had said. “Meat and potatoes man, then?” “Exactly,” she had said, and he was glad to see her give a small smile at his weak attempt at humour. “For example,” she said, reaching down to touch his hard penis, “I’m not even sure how to touch you properly.” Alastor had been afraid he might come at just the touch of her fingers on him like that, but he didn’t. He moved his hand down to cover hers and proceeded to guide hand her as she stroked him, saying, “How about this, Minerva? We’ll work it all out together: what I like, what you like, and—Merlin, we’d better stop that or I won’t last!” He had removed her hand from him then, and began touching her. Together, and with humour and more tenderness than Alastor had known he possessed, they had felt their way through that first, slightly awkward encounter, and as the months had passed, he had been pleased to discover a few things she liked very much indeed. He had also been pleased to find that, despite her avowed inexperience—or perhaps because of it—she was relatively uninhibited and as anxious to give pleasure as to receive it. He had not expected her to introduce him to her friends and family—she was, he knew, an extremely private person, and as a teacher at Hogwarts, she had to be very discreet—but her ongoing refusal to spend an entire night with him had begun to bother him. He was beginning to feel a bit like a—what did the Muggles call it?—a gigolo. Yes, that was the term. He didn’t think it was intentional on Minerva’s part, but it was clearly time to push her, just a bit, for a more definitive declaration of their relationship. So it was that one unseasonably warm Sunday in late May, Alastor found himself trudging up the moss-covered path to the great oak doors he had last passed through almost twenty years previously. Minerva met him at the entrance and showed him to her quarters, telling him to make himself comfortable while she got the tea. Malcolm was due in ten minutes, she said. Alastor had a look around, searching first and automatically for any alternate exits from the room—some bits of training were so ingrained you couldn’t shake them, even if you wanted to—and took stock of Minerva’s personal living space, greedy to glean a bit more information about the woman he was coming to believe he loved. The room was sparsely but tastefully furnished in creams and browns, punctuated by occasional accents of Gryffindor crimson and gold. An almost masculine-looking, room, he thought. Something was odd, though. At first, he couldn’t put his finger on it, then it came to him: the walls were bare, as was the mantel. There were apparently no family heirlooms, no mementoes, not even any photographs from Minerva’s past or of her family, anywhere in the room. He would have thought there might be at least one or two pictures of Malcolm, or even of Minerva’s disappeared (or “late”, as Moody privately thought) husband. He wondered fleetingly if she had taken them down because of his visit. Minerva came back out, bearing the tea tray and some biscuits. “I thought we’d start with this, and I’ll have a house-elf bring up some scones in a bit.” “This is fine, Minerva. There’s no need to go to any trouble on my account,” he said. “Well, in truth, it isn’t on your account, Alastor. Elgar—he’s the house-elf that serves me—makes a ginger-lemon curd that Malcolm especially loves.” “I see. Softening the blow of meeting me?” Alastor asked with a wink. “Not exactly, but it can’t hurt,” she said. Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Alastor, whose eye was trained to notice such things, saw Minerva’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. She crossed to the door and admitted a surprisingly tall young man with brown hair tied back in a ponytail and unusually blue eyes. He had a light dusting of hair on his upper lip and chin that appeared lighter than the hair on his head. Minerva said, “Alastor, I’d like you to meet my son, Malcolm Macnair. Malcolm, this is Alastor Moody.” The two men grasped hands, Malcolm saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” “Likewise, Mr Macnair,” replied Moody. “Please sit,” said Minerva, her voice just a pitch or two above normal. “I’ll just ask Elgar to bring the scones.” A moment later, a middle-aged (by Alastor’s reckoning) house-elf wearing a Hogwarts tea towel bearing a small red and gold crest popped in and loaded the tray with plates of warm, sweet-smelling scones and a dish of what Alastor supposed was the ginger-lemon curd. The elf then popped out with a quick bow. As neither his hostess nor her progeny appeared ready to jump into conversation, Alastor said, “So, Mr Macnair, your mother tells me you play Chaser for Gryffindor …” “Yes, sir. And please call me Malcolm, Mr Moody.” Alastor nodded, and Malcolm asked, “Are you interested in Quidditch?” “Indeed, I am. Used to Beat for my old Ravenclaw team. We won the Quidditch cup in my fourth year.” “That’s wonderful,” said the boy, eyeing the scones surreptitiously. His mother noticed and said, “Go ahead, Malcolm; I know you’re dying to have at the scones. You too, Alastor. I know you don’t care much for sweet things, but Elgar’s ginger-lemon curd really is very good.” “Well, I’ll have to give it a go, then,” said Alastor with a smile at Malcolm. He helped himself to a scone and some curd, and the three sat munching and sipping for a few minutes before Alastor said, “This is good, I must say. Is Elgar a kitchen-elf, then? As well as serving you?” “Oh, no,” Minerva replied. “Actually, he was my family’s elf, and when I came to work at Hogwarts, he came with me. He’s still technically a McGonagall-family elf, but he does have other duties around the castle.” “Unusual, isn’t it? I mean for Hogwarts to employ a privately owned elf?” asked Alastor. “Yes, I suppose, but Albus made a special exception at my request. Once I moved here, he wouldn’t have had much to do at my parents’ home. I didn’t want him to be unhappy. He is like family to me.” “And to me,” added Malcolm. “He taught me to read … well, with Mum’s help,” he said with a glance at Minerva, who just smiled at him. “That’s unusual too, isn’t it?” asked Alastor, who didn’t know much about house-elves. “Reading, I mean …” “Perhaps,” said Minerva. “Although I’m not really sure. As far as I know, all the McGonagall elves could read and write, but I don’t know if that’s common. It was helpful when my brother and I were growing up, as the elves could help us with our lessons when my mother and father were unavailable.” Must be nice, Alastor thought to himself, remembering the old besom of a witch he and his sisters had been sent to to learn their letters and numbers. In exchange, the Moody children had done all the cooking, cleaning, and gardening for the woman—by hand, since they were too young to use magic—after the day’s lessons were ended. The three chatted further about house-elves, Quidditch, and Moody’s work as an Auror until Minerva excused herself for a moment. Alastor saw Malcolm eyeing him subtly as the boy pretended to be examining his teacup, and decided to address what he thought was bothering him. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Malcolm? About me and your mother?” The boy’s eyes widened slightly, “No, sir. Well … that is, Mum didn’t say as much, but I gathered that you two are … going out together. That’s why she wanted me to meet you.” “That’s right.” Alastor leant in slightly and spoke quietly. “Between you and me, Malcolm, I think she was a bit nervous about it.” “Why?” “Afraid you might feel funny about it, I guess.” “No,” said Malcolm. “Not really. I mean … it’s a bit odd, I’ll admit, but … you seem … nice. And she seems happy. Just …” Malcolm hesitated. “Just what, lad?” “Just … be kind to her. She deserves a little kindness,” said Malcolm. “Aye. She does at that. And I’ll do my best,” answered Alastor earnestly. Minerva returned just then, and the three settled back into conversation. Later, as Alastor gave the password to enter his flat, he thought to himself that the afternoon had gone well. Minerva had finally seemed to relax a bit, and after his brief but frank conversation with Malcolm, the boy had seemed more at ease, too. There was something about the lad, Alastor thought as he sat down at the table in his small kitchen to do a bit of paperwork. Something vaguely familiar. The young man didn’t look much like his mother, Alastor thought. Perhaps a bit around the mouth … but Malcolm reminded him of someone. Maybe it was his father. Alastor had known Gerald Macnair—had been only a year ahead of the Slytherin in school—but not well. They had been in different houses, and their paths hadn’t crossed in any of the extra-curricular activities Alastor had participated in. Still, it was possible that he was picking up on a familial resemblance. Alastor made a mental note to see if he could dredge up any old pictures of Macnair. It wasn’t important, he knew, but the question of Malcolm’s appearance had reminded him that he had long meant to look a bit more closely into Gerald Macnair’s disappearance. His Auror’s sense of Something Not Quite Right was pricking at the back of Alastor’s consciousness, and he knew it wouldn’t let him alone until he investigated. Not that Alastor thought for a moment that Minerva had had anything do to with it. Alastor thought the man was dead—probably killed by a creditor, if the rudimentary investigation he had already conducted was any indication—but it would help him to rest just a bit easier if he knew that the man wouldn’t suddenly come barging back into Minerva’s life like a rampaging Hippogriff. At the very least, thought Alastor, perhaps he could help Minerva to finally and completely close the book on that chapter of her life. Maybe then she’d be more at ease with herself, and with him. ← Back to Chapter 16 On to Chapter 18→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A